


Stolen Nights

by Ulfrsmal



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Aftercare, Buff Jaskier | Dandelion, Dirty Talk, Exhibitionism, Fluff, Idiots in Love, Kissing, Lube, M/M, Masturbation, Mutual Pining, PWP, Pet Names, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Praise Kink, Present Tense, Series Jaskier, Someone Needs To Treat Jaskier Right And Geralt Volunteers, Trans Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Videogame Geralt, Voice Kink, Voyeurism, Watch The Author Avoid The Word “Straight” In A Gay Sex-Scene, guided masturbation, improvised lube, poetic prose, self-indulgent work
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-01
Updated: 2020-06-01
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:53:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24493804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ulfrsmal/pseuds/Ulfrsmal
Summary: Sometimes, the nights on the road just get too lonely – especially for someone like Jaskier, who is so deeply accustomed to the bustle and hustle of overcrowded cities. The Witcher would provide him with all the privacy he truly needs during these trying times, but his heightened senses deny him every opportunity to do so. Hence why he ends up at the other side of their camp, pretending he cannot hear how the man of his wettest dreams tends to his own lust…
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 19
Kudos: 278
Collections: Good Relationship Etiquette (familial included) - or Good BDSM Etiquette - or Good Relationship and BDSM Etiquette





	Stolen Nights

**Author's Note:**

> Is this self-indulgent? Yes, yes it is.  
> Do I care? No, no I don’t. Validate me please.  
> Oh, and please enjoy!
> 
> Dedicated to my BFF, whom I teased relentlessly about the wordcount rapidly increasing; hope you like it <3

Roach’s tail waggles, although she is fast asleep. It’s incredible how she manages to work almost as hard as Geralt does, day after day, and then fall asleep more easily than him. Then again, sleep has never come naturally to Geralt – not since he started to travel with the little bard in tow, at least. Ever since that fateful day back in Posada, his Witcher senses remain much too on edge than to allow him to truly relax. Jaskier might possess the smartest mouth this side of the Pontar – and it is a very kissable mouth too, although Geralt refuses to dwell too much on that – but the little bard is also _not_ trained to fight. Even if Jaskier could stand his own against a regular human (and he could, because he can be a sly fellow, and strong enough to break his lute on somebody’s head), there is just no way that he could best a monster as easily as Geralt can.

Therefore, the exhausted Witcher is left standing guard every night – because what good is he for otherwise, when he cannot sleep?

“ _Ah…_ ”

Oh, no. It’s going to be one of _those_ nights, huh…

Geralt knows he shouldn’t be too surprised; they haven’t hit any town with a half-decent brothel in the better part of two weeks, and for some reason Jaskier seems much less inclined to run off after pretty townsfolk these past month. Geralt himself is mostly unaffected by lust, because chaining contracts and drinking Witcher potions so regularly leaves him emotionally numb – _too_ numb.

Simply put, he is simply too exhausted from hunting without having a proper rest each night than to focus below the belt when he’s not bleeding from there and onto his bedrolls. Day or night makes no difference to him when fatigue seeps right down to his marrow, for there are monsters that only come out at certain times. Yesterday’s fill was a Nightwraith and it left Geralt so _weakened_ when morning came that his body just refused to cooperate anymore. Seeing as though he basically couldn’t even move properly, he put off collecting his reward in exchange for showing the Nightwraith’s trophy that he’d taken from the corpse.

Instead of fussing and risking dropping unconscious at every single step he took, he spent most of the day meditating – loosely concentrating on Jaskier practising some new songs that he’s been working on. Geralt vaguely recalls hearing something about a tiny Bruxa’s dick, some nobleman he’s never met in person, and colourful cursing at some uninspired rhymes.

In the end, he was unable to collect his reward until it was well into the evening, which meant only a short trip to the contract-giver’s house to give himself and Jaskier a proper dinner at least. Night fell too quickly, and so they returned to their camp, where a huffy Roach had accepted Jaskier’s treat of an apple in the form of a happy little trot back to her preferred spot under a wide tree’s branches.

Geralt allows himself to smile at the memory of Jaskier’s smile when he saw how Roach had accepted his treat – but then her tail waggles, practically whips Geralt across the cheek.

The Witcher lets out a grunt, not nearly loud enough to disturb her sleeping cycle but still clear enough to express his own discontent. Annoyingly, he doesn’t even need to turn his head towards the other side of their makeshift camp to catch more moans coming from beneath Jaskier’s blankets.

Melitele’s _tits_ , as the common folk would say. Desire pools low on Geralt’s belly – just like it always does when he hears this sweet tenor reaching the highest of notes. It doesn’t matter if it happens onstage and on purpose, or under the covers in stolen nights; it affects Geralt just the same.

_Jaskier_ affects him just the same.

But Geralt knows it is a forbidden pleasure – this handsome bardling is not his to touch, to caress, to love. Geralt is quite sure he could make Jaskier sing the sweetest song of love he’s ever cared to compose in his entire life, but he’s also too aware of the risk he would run if he were to ever propose such a thing to his adored bard. Perhaps that’s why these stolen nights feel like the purest of sins to Geralt, and so much like everything he’s ever wished for, but can never have.

It's torture, really. That’s what it is. The sweetest, cruellest, torture.

“ _Ge– ah…_ ”

Geralt doesn’t dwell on that bitten-off syllable, even though his heart does a weird little jump when he hears it. He should not intrude on Jaskier’s privacy like this, he should not be listening in to his bard jacking off like some kind of creep – Witcher senses or not, to do so would be beyond rude. So Geralt just walks to his own bedroll, already resigning himself to another mostly sleepless night. He will not be able to sleep until Jaskier does, and not even because the bard is a rowdy little mouthful in bed.

Geralt is only slightly ashamed of just how readily and rapidly he’s become used to Jaskier’s steadily beating heart. Nowadays, the Witcher needs that lullaby to fall asleep – and he bolts awake the very moment his bardling’s heartbeat or breathing change.

Sighing softly to himself, the Witcher sits down, one powerful thigh against the bedroll and the other knee raised so he can lean his elbow somewhere, not even caring whether he makes noise or not. He doesn’t know which way would be better. The bardling could be easily startled by the sound of Geralt coming closer to him when he’s about to bring himself off. But they could both pretend nothing of interest is happening in front of Geralt’s golden eyes if he stays so silent that the bard doesn’t notice him; and that may be better for Jaskier’s abandon.

Indecisive yet determined to help his bardling as best as he can, even if it only by staying silent watch, the Witcher simply sits down on his own bedroll.

The very moment his lovely bottom rests on the rough blankets, Jaskier stills.

Geralt freezes in place too, fearing his actions might cause his bard to become too afraid to continue making such sweet music beneath his sheets. Geralt still feels overcome with guilt whenever he allows himself to think upon how much exactly he loves Jaskier’s voice, but he cannot help it. Not now. Not when he knows how Jaskier is feeling.

“I’m not going to stop you.” Geralt mutters, so low that, for a moment, he wonders if he’s slipped right into those vague frequencies that Witchers can hear but humans can’t. It would be quite disastrous if he had, because he _did_ intend for Jaskier to hear him.

“… are you going to listen, then?” Jaskier asks, sounding like he held his breath to be able to speak without having his voice tremble.

Geralt swallows. His throat is completely dry. He wants to deny that, wants to say he would never betray Jaskier’s trust like that, but…

… but that would be a lie. A half-truth at best. Because he does not want to listen without permission, but he does want to listen in, but he doesn’t have permission, so he should not listen in, but Witcher senses don’t care for his feelings about propriety.

“No, don’t answer that. Of course you are. You’re a Witcher. You cannot help it.”

Geralt’s gaze raises from the indeterminate space between his spread thighs and goes right to Jaskier’s bedroll. The little bard emerges from beneath the covers slowly, as if he’s putting great care in not letting Geralt see the curve of his cock – a futile attempt at decency, really, because Geralt already knows he’s hard as a fucking rock. Still, he will not call Jaskier out on it. Not when he can see the bard’s blush in full. Their improvised fireplace in between them is already spent, but Geralt can still see its sweet shade perfectly clear – he knows he has his Witcher senses to thank for that small mercy. Or maybe it’s art of this sweet torture, of this curse he’s found himself in the middle of, because it means he now knows not only how Jaskier _sounds_ when he’s getting pleasure abound, but also how he _looks_.

What Geralt _doesn’t_ know, however, is whether such a delightful blush is due to mere lust, or to being found out and caught right in the middle of getting his own edge off. Ultimately, though, it does not matter in the slightest. Geralt enjoys the view just the same.

Like the trembling, depraved _freak_ that he is.

“Sorry.” Geralt offers, still looking only at Jaskier’s rosy cheeks. It’s better than looking elsewhere on the bard’s body and betraying the warmth swirling deep and low in Geralt’s gut.

“Don’t be. It’s not your fault…” Jaskier bunches the blankets up, raises his knees to create a sort of tarpaulin to cover his pride from Geralt’s gaze. “… unless you asked to be made a Witcher, in which case, I fear for your sanity, my friend.”

Those last two lines _hurt_. Geralt doesn’t want to dwell on that, either. Even when he knows exactly _why_ they hurt him so.

“I did not.” He replies instead, looking off to the side. It’s better if he can pretend that there’s still a sliver of modesty, of privacy, left untouched by his heightened senses. If only for Jaskier’s sake. “Though I cannot say I regret becoming a Witcher, either.”

“Am I rude if I say I’m glad you are one, too?” When Geralt looks at Jaskier again, he looks genuinely apologetic – but those blue eyes of his look blacker now, and there’s a thin layer of sweat clinging to his skin. Geralt swallows again. His throat is still utterly dry. “The _stories_ , Geralt! The tales you’ve told me about! Our adventures! The _songs_ I could write!”

There’s a pun in there, somewhere, about him singing high notes both in and out of bed. Geralt is, however, considerate enough to not look for it too hard. The Gods knows Jaskier is already hard enough for both of them right now, much as he still tries to hide it.

“… I’m not going to interrupt you.” Geralt mutters again. He feels much too blunt and awkward as those words leave his mouth, but they are better said than unsaid. If only as a show of trust to Jaskier. Or so Geralt tells himself.

“I just… how can you go for so long without…?”

Geralt doesn’t need to look to know Jaskier has moved a hand back down on the other side of that blanket, probably dangerously close to his crotch. This little bard holds his gaze steady, though; which explains why Geralt’s breath catches in his throat.

It’s a good thing that Jaskier doesn’t have a Witcher’s senses too. Otherwise Geralt would’ve _died_ from being teased about how much he reacts to holding Jaskier’s undivided attention.

“I’ve been chaining contracts, Jaskier.” Geralt starts, somehow completely unable to look away from the enticing blue-black of his bard’s eyes. When his gaze wanders, it does so only slightly, to glance at that kissable, half-opened mouth – and back up to his eyes. “Hunting monsters day and night leaves me exhausted. If I cannot even sleep, you’ll excuse me if I don’t really want to have sex.”

Jaskier’s heartbeat picks up just a little at that last word. But his mouth closes in a pout – one of those full-bodied ones that Geralt knows he cannot resist. What’s worse, Jaskier knows he cannot resist them. His bardling seems affected by how Geralt doesn’t want a bedpartner right now, although Geralt cannot for the life of him discern why he’d care so much.

“Then you won’t help me…?”

Geralt chokes on air, feels his chest contract, turns away from Jaskier to cough.

Out of all the ridiculous, lust-addled things to say…

“ _Jaskier_ …” He starts, more in warning than in reproach.

“Oh, I know, I know…” Jaskier leans against the tree behind him, hissing when its rough bark bites into the soft undershirt he’s chosen to sleep in. “You never help me with these things, you just listen in on me jerking off or fucking someone…”

Jaskier trails off like he expects Geralt to say something in rebuke. Sadly, there is nothing the Witcher could ever say to that – knowingly or not, Jaskier said naught but the truth. It was most likely knowingly, though; otherwise he wouldn’t have hit the target so head-on. Geralt knows how Jaskier operates. His little bard knew about him, even though it leaves Geralt wondering when exactly Jaskier caught on – and so, he was able to strike true, aiming right at Geralt’s heart by saying the naked truth.

Warmed up by something that is not just shame, Geralt wonders if this naughty bardling is fully disrobed under that blanket, or if he’s merely taken that gorgeous cock out. Slow blood thrums within the Witcher’s veins.

“… so you _do_ do that…” Jaskier. There’s genuine surprise on his face, so unlike the knowing smirk Geralt expected him to sport. But then, Jaskier smiles, “I knew it… you don’t do anything, but you listen to me moan.”

Jaskier’s easy confidence, alongside the complete lack of reproach in his voice, steals all air from his Witcher’s lungs.

“I… cannot help it. Witcher senses…” Geralt stumbles over his own words, just like he always does. Awkwardness seeps into his bones, brings blood to his face. Whoever said that Witchers cannot blush was lying through gritted teeth – though maybe it had been a fellow Witcher saying it, probably to discourage people from trying to fluster them. “Sorry, Jaskier, I… I really can’t…”

“I like it when you listen.”

Words die within Geralt’s throat. His breath hitches. Again. He can only stare at his unabashed, dishevelled bard.

“You thought I didn’t know…? Geralt, _please_. I might not have your senses, but I know when you’re all excited and needy… I’ve seen you like that so many times… Oh, I love it when I return to our room from deflowering a trembling maiden and find you so restless, standing there in the middle of the room, unable to look me in the eye…”

Geralt swallows. He didn’t know he was so easy to read. The people he knows all tend to say the opposite. So perhaps it’s only Jaskier who knows him so. It’s a heady little fact to focus on. It makes him stare at that smart, kissable mouth once again.

“You never say anything, but I know…” Jaskier’s head rolls back against the tree behind him, a drawn-out moan accompanying the movement, “… _fuck_ …”

Geralt is just about to say something, whatever, _anything_ to end this sweetest of tortures, when Jaskier speaks up again.

“Will you look at me? Geralt, will you look at me now while I touch myself like this?”

Geralt can only nod his head, growling something mean and vaguely threatening. There’s a certain ravenous hunger within him, one that has become as familiar as the scent of this sweet bard, and it threatens with swallowing him whole. Just like it always does when Jaskier comes back from one of his trysts, looking messy and satiated and so utterly _handsome_. The impulse to gather his bardling in strong arms and set him down onto their oftentimes shared bed to kiss him all over again grows ever so stronger after every single escapade.

“Good… thank you…”

That’s all the warning Geralt gets before Jaskier, unabashed by both lust and the knowledge that Geralt will not only listen but also watch, throws the blanket aside.

His little bard is as hard as Geralt knew him to be, and deliciously naked from the waist down. Their rough blankets and bedrolls cannot be the most pleasant thing to feel against his skin, Geralt thinks, but Jaskier seems unaffected by that. If anything, it only prompts him to spread his thighs more, knees still raised because it lets him cant his hips just so. Jaskier moans when he sees how Geralt’s gaze travels all over his lower half – from the inner thigh to the calf, then to the opposite ankle, and back up towards his crotch. It almost seems to him that his Witcher is avoiding looking directly at his cock.

“You can look, Geralt. That’s the whole point of this.”

“Why?” Geralt asks before his brain can catch up with his mouth. Jaskier almost recoils, ever expressive – Geralt regrets having worded it like that, scrambles to clarify, “I-I mean, why let me watch when you know all I do is listen, and only because I literally, physically, cannot choose not to – do you wish to torture me?”

“Oh, _Geralt_ …”

Jaskier’s cock sways to one side when he moans, his voice steady even through his pleasure. The perks of being a singer, Geralt assumes. His bard lowers one leg to the blanket, and immediately raises it again. The fabric is probably too rough. Geralt would offer him one of his own undershirts to lay on, but the only clean one he has right now is the one he’s currently wearing. All the other items he could lend his bardling are made of leather and metal; and he knows how badly his armour can chafe. It’s best to not risk it.

It would be even better if he could gather Jaskier into his arms and seat him in his own lap, though. Then again, touching is off the table tonight. Jaskier asked to be listened to and watched, nothing more. Geralt knows himself ravenous and greedy, but he will not take more than what he’s offered. He knows dear Jaskier is already giving him much more than he deserves.

“Like what you see…?” Jaskier prompts him, still not touching himself. Geralt doesn’t know why Jaskier would deny himself like this, but he will not call him out on it. Whatever works for him works for Geralt too.

“ _Yes_.”

Jaskier moans at his growl, his tenor complementing Geralt’s low tone quite well. The desire to make his little bard sing grows within the Witcher. In a way, this is as best an opportunity as he’s ever going to get – he might as well make the most of it while it still lasts.

“I like it a lot, Jaskier… reminds me of that one time I caught you in bed with that one blonde lad…” Jaskier pouts as if he’s going to say something. Geralt continues before he can, his mind going back to that shoddy bedroom in which he’d found Jaskier _and_ the succubus he’d been contracted to kill. It had been quite the awakening to realise that the creature had adopted a man’s form to improve their chances of seducing Jaskier, “You looked so _good_ , all blushing and needy and desperate for being fucked. Just like you do now.”

Jaskier moans.

Deft fingertips dance up and down his length, teasing with feather-light touches. Somehow, it reminds Geralt of how Jaskier plays his lute – gently plucking the strings, positioning his fingers just so on the fretboard, wrapping his hand around it to better reach the lowest strings. Well, lowest in tone – somehow they’re the highest strings, the ones with the most distance to the floor. The whole thing seems so utterly confusing to Geralt, who couldn’t play a single clean chord to save his life.

Geralt is distracted from his diatribes when his sweet bard cups a trembling hand around his own cock’s reddened head, somehow doing his best to give his Witcher the best possible view. That’s not really necessary, because Geralt will enjoy this to the maximum amount no matter what Jaskier might do or say, but he can appreciate it all the same. It feels… warm… to know his bardling is thinking of him too.

“Did you want to fuck me…?” Jaskier prompts, not even bothering to hide how his voice wavers. His heartbeat is picking up, too. He’s got arousal painted all over his lithe, yet well-muscled, body, Geralt realises with a start.

“Honestly? Yes.” Geralt looks to Jaskier’s gorgeous cock because it’s better than looking at his face while he confesses this. “But you were affected by their spell. It would not have been proper. It would’ve felt like taking from you what you might not have given me otherwise. I couldn’t do that to you.”

A moment of silence, broken to heightened senses only by Jaskier’s breathing. His chest heaves up and down as he inhales, like a ship rocked by a violent storm. Geralt’s gaze gets magnetically pulled to the broad expanse of his bard’s chest – proportionate to the rest of him, covered only by that thin, well-worn undershirt. This is not one of those fancy chemises that Jaskier is so fond of wearing under unlaced doublets, Geralt instantly realises. Knowing his bard, this might as well be the least elaborate article of clothing in his whole wardrobe.

Geralt hums an indeterminate low note when his greedy gaze reaches the collar. There is a thin thread to tighten the shirt over the wearer’s chest, but Jaskier has opted to leave it opened – and how not, when leaving it undone is so very in character for him. As it is, there is a little expanse of skin visible right below the hollow of his neck; a place that Geralt is guilty of wishing he could lick into. The perfect, although too tiny, view of the starting patch of dark curls on his bard’s chest is framed by the shirt’s thread.

The view is almost as distracting, as intoxicating, as this sweet bard’s even sweeter scent.

“I’m not affected by any succubus now…” Jaskier practically moans as he swirls a fingertip around the head of his cock. Geralt can taste his precum on the air. He growls again. Unfortunately, Jaskier takes it as his answer to his earlier words, “I really am _not_ under a creature’s spell! Or, well. I… I may be…”

Geralt’s gaze jumps from Jaskier’s frenulum, where a translucid droplet has gotten caught, to his face.

“But I’m okay with that.” Jaskier continues, not minding him at all, “This creature is nice to me and he listens in when I touch myself… I wonder if he can always taste my sweat and my come in the air…”

His gaze locks with Geralt’s. Those very blue eyes are downright black by now.

“I can taste you now.” Geralt replies, instinctually knowing Jaskier was referring to him. Even through lust and teasing, his bardling never ceases to amaze him, never stops teasing him relentlessly. Geralt doesn’t know how much more he can take, because he’s not yet reached the limit of his patience when it comes to Jaskier – he doubts such a limit even exists – but he can feel it looming closer. There’s something dark and warm coiling in his gut, and it feels so much like hunger – but also like so much more than just that. “I can taste your salt in the air… You don’t know how poignant it is.”

Jaskier moans again, his eyes closing almost completely even though he fights the instinct. Geralt blinks, suddenly realising that he’s unconsciously leant towards his bard at some point during his introspection. Or maybe this is just his own lust. He doesn’t even know anymore. It isn’t like any lust he’s ever felt before. Other times it starts at his loins and travels to his head, but it doesn’t stop at his heart along the way. But Jaskier…

“Tell me more… tell me how I taste to you.”

“Like home.”

Jaskier’s hand stops. Geralt’s mind finally catches up with his mouth. He curses in a language that Jaskier should not be able to speak; he’s too young for that. His bardling huffs a laugh, breathless and amused on equal parts. He’s understood the meaning, if not the word itself.

“Oh, _Geralt_ …”

The Witcher cannot look at his bard. Not while he can taste even more salt in the air. Jaskier’s cock seems to react to the naked truth of what Jaskier is to Geralt, swaying heavily from side to side like it has a mind of its own. Geralt stares at it, unable to look at Jaskier’s handsome face. He doesn’t want to see rejection in his features. He can only hope Jaskier will be graceful enough to not banish him to the other side of the woods – as if that would make the Witcher’s senses stop picking up on the bard’s lust…

“You’re too far away come sit closer to me.”

Geralt is quite sure that Jaskier has not used proper grammar for that order, but he doesn’t care enough to call him out on it. He moves as if by instinct, trying to not notice how Jaskier’s gaze falls to his belt when he stands up – he could crawl over, but not over the remains of their little fire. Ashes and charred woodchips are hard to clean off leather, slip in between it and the metal parts of the very scant armour he still has on. Therefore, Geralt rose to his feet with the intention to walk around the little burnt logs. He hasn’t yet decided how much he will invade his bard’s personal space, though. His enhanced senses don’t need to be extremely close to pick up every detail; but if Jaskier wants him really close to his own body, Geralt will not protest.

“Oh…”

If Geralt didn’t know better, he would’ve assumed his bard sounds _disappointed_. He’s still staring at Geralt’s crotch, too. Which can only mean one thing. The one cat that is still not out the metaphorical bag. The one thing Geralt dreads telling all his bedpartners about – and it is a never-ending cycle, too. A conversation that he’s bound to have with every single person he carries into his bed. He should’ve known that he’d have to have it with Jaskier, too. His bard is clever and intelligent on equal parts, court-smart and street-smart alike, but he doesn’t know it all. And Geralt is always extremely careful about this. And he knows that Jaskier never glances below the water’s surface when he bathes him, much as Geralt wishes he would. Somehow, everything is easier when Jaskier takes the initiative. Idly, he wonders if it’s easier for Jaskier when the one taking the lead is Geralt himself.

“It’s… not what you think.” Geralt mumbles, looking off to the side. He has never been able to have this conversation while looking his bedpartner in the eye. Not when this conversation is the very reason why some of them leave altogether. “I do like what I see. What I hear. What I taste.”

“Then…” Jaskier raises his left hand, stops it mid-air. “No, never mind. Just come here. You don’t have to tell me anything if you don’t want to.”

And then he just motions Geralt closer, and closer, and closer still. Jaskier doesn’t stop his wild gesturing until Geralt s kneeling directly in front of him, thighs spread to let him see that, yes, there really isn’t a bulge on him. Or at least not one beyond what mere cloth can do when wrinkled due to such a posture.

Geralt is still not looking at Jaskier. Even though it defeats the purpose that he was brought here for.

“For fuck’s sake.” Jaskier curses in a groan that gets to Geralt’s head more than it should, “Geralt, _please_. What’s wrong? If you’re not into this you just need to tell me and I’ll just…” Jaskier trails off, probably too embarrassed to admit that he’d just keep jerking himself off nice and slow without even acknowledging that Geralt is there too.

“I didn’t say that!” Geralt instantly replies, looking at his little bard in the eye. It is admittedly a tiny contact, but it still makes that warmth within Geralt stir. “I didn’t say I don’t like it. I just said that… _this_ …” He gestures vaguely to his own crotch, “… is not what you think. That’s all.”

“I don’t think anything, though.” Jaskier smiles, half teasing and half aroused. His eyes are almost completely black, the pupils blown out of proportion from his lust. Up this close, his salt and his musk feel delightfully thick on Geralt’s tongue. It’s intoxicating in the best of ways. Sweet torture – he can taste it in the air, but not on Jaskier’s skin. He will never taste it on his bardling’s skin. “Tell me or don’t tell me. It’s your decision. Not mine.”

Geralt glances downwards, to Jaskier’s half-opened mouth, and wets his own lips with the very tip of his tongue – all the while trying to ignore how his bard’s heart audibly skips a beat. When he glances back up to Jaskier’s eyes, he finds him looking down at Geralt’s own mouth.

“I’m not good with words.” Geralt finally says, moving even closer to his bard on his own volition. “So let me show you instead.” Jaskier sucks in a breath, lets his mouth hang opened afterwards. “Lend me your hand.”

Geralt’s head _reels_ when Jaskier takes his own right hand off his cock and extends it towards Geralt – slowly, like this is a fever dream that they’re sharing and not real life. Geralt cannot fault Jaskier for that; he himself feels just as affected.

The more Jaskier moves, the more of his sweet scent that unfurls through the air. There’s sweat and salt, because what he was doing before Geralt interrupted him _is_ a very physical activity, and their heady mixture has Geralt’s brain rolling within his head. Every thought process, coherent or not, has already abandoned him – he can only concentrate on Jaskier, on his scent. On those little traces of chamomile where the rest he took at their last bathtub hasn’t yet abandoned him – at the neck and the wrists and, surprisingly, the naked crease where thigh meets hip.

But the most surprising smell of all, the culprit of catching Geralt’s full attention and make him double forward, unable to breathe, is not any of that.

Lute oil.

Warm and with wooden undertones, it coalesces around Jaskier’s extended hand. Geralt follows the scent all the way to Jaskier’s cock – and suddenly stops himself before he can lean in to taste it.

Jaskier’s hand slides ever so softly against his hip.

“… tell me…” Jaskier whispers, sounding so unsure that Geralt’s heart deflates. “Tell me anything you want, but don’t stay there all silent…”

Geralt only needs one good look into Jaskier’s eyes, his bard refusing to meet his gaze directly, to know that this is something that hurts Jaskier quite acutely. Gripped by the need to comfort – to _protect_ – his little songbird, Geralt doesn’t stop to think before he speaks. He can live with some more embarrassment to his name, with more colour on his cheeks. Anything for his dear heart. Even though he is unable to put that into words.

“… you smell so sweet, I just…”

Jaskier hums so softly that the only reason why Geralt catches it at all is due to his Witcher senses being so finely attuned to his bard. Somehow, that little hum is everything Geralt needs to change his approach – to really let go of whatever inhibitions he still had left; because, if there is one person who can strip him raw without even having to touch him at all, that person is undoubtedly Jaskier.

“I know you’re desperate, Jaskier. I know you took some of that oil you use on your lute. I know you love it when I catch you in bed with someone. I know you love to be loud when you know I will hear you fuck. And, above all, I know that you calling me so close to you while you touch yourself like this is not only for your own benefit.”

Jaskier _moans_ at his every word, head rolling back against the tree. Desperation is a really good look on him, Geralt decides a split second before he rolls his hips just the tiniest bit forward. His bard’s trembling hand brushes against the curve of his crotch, his knuckles following it to almost his perineum – Geralt’s posture doesn’t really allow for that, though; the sensation is more in his head than in his body.

Geralt has heard tales of Eskel’s magical aura being so strong that he can make it vibrate for magic users, but he’s always thought it was just a high tale; something that Eskel bragged about without having any real-life basis. Now, though…

… now Geralt can believe those tales. Because Jaskier’s touch is as electrifying to Geralt as Eskel’s own must be for sorceresses and mages alike.

“ _Oh_.” Jaskier moans, realisation painted clearly on his handsome features. He is just so expressive, Geralt realises – and not for the first time. “Oh, Geralt, you’re–”

Fuck. Here we go. Geralt closes his eyes, lets his head hang low. If Jaskier is going to reject him, so be it; Geralt will not fight him. He would never fight Jaskier. And if he’s rejected because of what he is, well…

… it wouldn’t be the first time someone calls him a freak, now, wouldn’t it?

“ _Fuuuuck_ …” Jaskier moans again, so drawn out that his voice cracks at the end, sounding just like it does when he tries to reach a note that is too high up for him to reach. “Oh, _Geralt_ … I want to eat you… or – or s-suck you off? Fuck, I don’t know…”

“Either is fine.” Geralt confirms. He’s staring at Jaskier with more than a little red on his face, stunned into speaking without thinking at the blatant acceptance he finds. “I-I should’ve told you earlier. Before we were in bed together.”

“ _Oooohhh_ , is that what this is?” Jaskier smirks, though he’s so impossibly turned on that the teasing effect is somewhat lost, “We’re in bed together now? Are you going to fuck me, my dear Witcher?”

Geralt sucks in a sharp breath, chokes on it, takes a big gulp of air to compensate. Jaskier’s scent invades his senses, impossibly sweet and pervasive and so much like the little bard himself that Geralt’s head spins on its own axis. Aside from the sweat and the salt and the chamomile and the lute oil, he can now detect _himself_ on Jaskier’s clothes – or on the single article of cloth he’s wearing. The sheer shamelessness of Jaskier exposing himself like this has Geralt’s heartbeat picking up, even though Witchers’ hearts tend to stay always calmer than humans’ own.

“Would you like that, you little lark?” Geralt lets his voice rumble, shifts in place so he’s kneeling more to one side than right in between Jaskier’s thighs. If he’s going to merely speak to him, Geralt muses, he might as well whisper into his ear. Past experience has taught him that Jaskier’s breath hitches whenever he unleashes his lowest register; it is definitive proof that Jaskier truly likes those low tones. “Wouldn’t you _love_ to lay under me and scream my name while I make you come? I wonder if you’d beg or demand I touch you even more…”

Jaskier moans more. His gorgeous cock jumps. If his current state is anything to go by, he would be begging and not demanding. But that’s okay. Geralt doesn’t mind. As long as his little bard is having fun and being himself, everything is alright.

Geralt catches Jaskier’s right hand and slowly brings it up to his mouth. His lips brush against Jaskier’s knuckles, feather-light, because the gesture might be romantic, but lute oil is absolutely _not_ edible. When those very blue eyes look right at Geralt’s own, the gold in them shining unnaturally bright even in the dead of night, Geralt kisses Jaskier’s fingers one by one.

“ _Geralt_ …” Jaskier whines, voice trembling. His cock twitches again, threatening with coming untouched. Geralt growls at the mere possibility; it’s impossibly hot to know himself so wanted. There’s no doubt about that, either; Jaskier is reacting now much more acutely than he did when he was touching himself without Geralt intervening. “Fuck, give me more, give me – let me – _Geralt_ …”

The Witcher smiles. His first instinct was to smirk, but he’s much too relaxed for that. His little bard always reaches deep within his chest and pulls right at his heartstrings, taking his desire to tease away from him. The only thing Geralt can feel now is a strong need to make sure his bard is taken care of – in all senses and meanings, in all universes.

“Go on, then.” He concedes while he moves his hand – and, by extension, Jaskier’s own, still clasped in Geralt’s – closer to the bard’s thigh. “Touch yourself.”

“… for you…?”

Geralt cannot keep the growl off his voice as he reels from the whispered question, his blood thrumming a _crescendo_ within his veins.

“ _For me_ , little bard. Sing _for me_.”

Jaskier moans again, loud and uncontained and so deliciously unabashed. Another wave of pungent salt spreads through the scarce air in between him and Geralt, wringing another growl from the Witcher’s throat. Sometimes Geralt really wonders if there’s any truth to all those rumours claiming that Witchers are more animal than human; he might grunt and groan to get out of awkward social interactions, but this is _different_. This is raw, and real, and unabashed. His growls now are borne from instinct and lust, not at all from a careful overthinking about the best way to get away from prying townsfolk.

Jaskier’s hand wraps around his own cock and constricts it almost greedily. It’s a bit like he’s trying to not come too fast – not that Geralt would ever mind such a thing. If anything, that would only indicate Jaskier’s excitement that this is actually happening. A sigh leaves those kissable, half-parted lips as Jaskier works his hand upwards, going from his base to just beneath the crown. It’s rosy and pretty and it looks like it would be a silky, delightful weight on Geralt’s tongue. The Witcher’s mouth waters at the mere insinuation that, maybe, just _maybe_ , his little bard will grow so unhinged and needy that he’ll let this Witcher eat him right up.

It takes Geralt a moment to remember that he doesn’t have to bottle everything up right now. He can just say it outright, make his lovely bardling blush and _sing_.

“Why’d you stop, little one? You don’t want to do this anymore, or do you wish I would touch you myself?”

Jaskier moans like he’s going to agree enthusiastically to that – but then he nods his head “no”. Geralt tries to not feel so irremediably wounded.

He fails.

“If… Gods, Geralt, if you do that I’m not going to last…” Jaskier huffs, sounding like he’s laughing breathlessly. Geralt cannot help but wonder why his little bard sounds humourless, because Jaskier is usually anything but.

“Why’d you think I care about that?” Geralt leans in to press his closed lips against Jaskier’s raised knee. The gesture is sweet enough to directly contradict the roughness in his voice – the more Geralt talks, the less he can control how smooth or rough he sounds. It’s like being drunk. Because he _is_. He’s drunk on Jaskier’s scent. Geralt kisses his bard again, “Come as many times as you wish. I’ll stay.”

“You will?!”

Geralt is honestly taken aback by how eagerly Jaskier leans towards him, his back leaving the tree-trunk in an instant. His knee slides from underneath Geralt’s mouth and ends up against his shoulder instead – a warm weight grounding the Witcher’s overexcited senses. Jaskier’s scent unfurls even more due to him moving, settling warm and heavy on Geralt’s tongue. He barely suppresses the urge to lick at his own lips.

“Yes, Jaskier. This doesn’t have to be a one-time thing if you want more.”

“… _oh_ …”

Geralt _growls_. Jaskier sounds almost as broken and tiny as he does when he’s just about to come. Geralt knows he has no business knowing that information already, but he does. Jaskier is always too loud; and his Witcher senses, too attuned to his sweet presence by Geralt’s side. Then again, the Witcher knows he would know that information even if he weren’t one. Jaskier is just too damn _loud_ when he’s enjoying himself so intimately.

“You sound like you’re going to come any minute now.” Geralt teases. It’s quite strange to find that he has no qualms about using information he shouldn’t know to tease Jaskier. It almost feels out of character – even to Geralt himself.

Perhaps in an attempt to not dwell too much on that, Geralt rolls his muscles like he’s going to step closer to Jaskier. His little bard moves back, taking his knee away from Geralt’s shoulder, letting him step further into Jaskier’s personal space. The urge to press himself flush against his bard is almost strong enough to overtake him. But touching is still very much not on the table, Geralt knows.

Even though he might have broken that rule already by kissing Jaskier’s exposed, sweet-tasting skin.

The salt and sweat of his bard linger on Geralt’s tongue. He chases the intoxicating taste as he waits for Jaskier to say something – _anything_ – because he’s _Jaskier_ , and he’s never been able to stay quiet for long.

“… can I ask for… more…?” Jaskier mumbles. He sounds so unsure that Geralt’s heart almost breaks.

“Yes.” He answers without a single ounce of hesitation in his voice. Jaskier looks at him with sheer hunger in his eyes – so ravenous that Geralt sees his own want reflected right back at him. “A million times _yes_ , little bard.”

Somehow, pronouncing Jaskier’s name would’ve felt too much like confessing – and that is something Geralt cannot do. Not now. Not like this. Jaskier is the one people usually assume to be the hopeless romantic; but they never realise Geralt himself is even sappier. He just hides it much better than the little songbird ever could. And Gods know Jaskier deserves the grandest gestures of affection, and someone who can love him fully and not drag him from monster-hunt to monster-hunt indefinitely. But this is not the time to dwell on that, either. Not when Jaskier is looking at him like he hung all the stars in the dark sky above them.

“Just… just tell me what you want. I’ll do it.” Geralt mumbles, feeling like his voice is much too rough for those sweet, adoring words.

“Could you…” Jaskier’s tongue dips out to wet his lower lip. It’s a fleeting touch, because he still has more to say, but it fries Geralt’s senses anyway. “C-could you… come here? A-against m-me…?”

Geralt hums a low note; one he knows Jaskier always takes as affirmative. To ram the meaning home, to make it even easier to read, Geralt accompanies the sound with him leaning forward again. Jaskier gasps so sweetly, moves torpidly due to his own arousal –and he doesn’t still until Geralt is nicely slotted behind his body.

The Witcher feels his heartbeat pick up marginally when he realises how firmly his bard’s back is now pressed to his own chest. The undershirt isn’t nearly thick enough to hide the warmth and slick coming from under it; Geralt can taste _and_ feel it. His hands go to Jaskier’s hips before he remembers that he’s not supposed to touch – his fingertips haven’t done so much as brush against his bard’s marked hipbones when Jaskier speaks up again.

“ _Oh_ , fuck… yes… hold me to you, talk to me, let me… _aaahhhh_ …”

Geralt leans his lips against the curve of Jaskier’s shoulder and unabashedly looks downwards to see what had his little songbird dissolving into such heavenly moans – and it turns out to be the fleeting dance of his fingers around the head of his cock, his thumb gently sliding over the very tip and slicking it all with the salt coming off the slit at the top.

The Witcher hums another low note, happy with this angle – it’s not really akin to what he’d see if that gorgeous cock was borne from his own hips instead, but it’s nice all the same. It’s a first-row seat to the show Jaskier is putting on, even though calling this a “show” would be a disservice and a lie. This is genuine, Geralt knows; his bardling is just tethering on the edge of control, ready to slide right into submission and let him control his pleasure.

And Geralt will be a good boy this time, and not try to take anything else than is so graciously given to him by his beloved songbird.

“Enjoy yourself, then…” Geralt rumbles against Jaskier’s shoulder. His hands go back to Jaskier’s hips. “I can taste your arousal, little bard…” He turns his head to be able to run his tongue over the side of Jaskier’s neck. “Did you get undressed while I was with Roach…?”

Jaskier makes a tiny little sound that pretends to be a “yes”, rolling his head back against Geralt’s shoulder. It’s more than clear that he’s enjoying this even more now than he did when Geralt was merely talking to him from the other side of their spent fireplace. The way he huffs and puffs tells Geralt that he’s looming closer and closer to his release; and something revolts within the Witcher.

He wants Jaskier to enjoy himself, he really does. His little bard deserves to have naught but the best – and that absolutely includes orgasms.

And yet there is something about to wage a bloody war within Geralt’s very heart – and it shamefully ties in with how he has never been able to get enough of this precious little songbird. He knows that Jaskier will ask for more if he wants to, because he’s rowdy and shameless and he cannot shut up at all. He knows it was Geralt himself who gave him the option, the _freedom_ , to just ask him to do any and everything for him in bed.

And yet…

“So sweet.” Geralt nibbles at the back of Jaskier’s neck, dancing in between biting him fully and merely grazing his sensitive skin. His bardling makes a sound from the back of his throat, his hips rolling forward to meet his hand. “I can _feel_ you, Jaskier. You’re so ready to spill all over yourself…” Another nibble. Jaskier _sings_. “Would you do that, little lark? Would you let me watch that gorgeous cock of yours, would you let me taste your orgasm on your skin?”

Jaskier trembles violently and doubles forward, his back leaving Geralt’s chest. A sharp pang of pain crosses through the Witcher’s wretched little heart – has he hurt Jaskier by being overzealous? Did he say the wrong thing? Jaskier’s scent hasn’t grown thick and sultry like it does when he’s coming; and the air is not yet coated in the sweet-and-salt of his come. The only possible explanation is that Jaskier does not want this anymore…

More of Jaskier’s scent spreads, coming from his arms and chest. Geralt _growls_.

“Fuck, that’s better… I was overheating…” Jaskier moans as he leans back against Geralt’s broad chest. “ _Oh_ … yeah, that’s _much_ better…”

Geralt’s hands cover Jaskier’s hipbones almost possessively. His bard is now fully and deliciously naked, leaning against him and spreading his thighs as wide apart as they can go. Geralt presses his closed lips against Jaskier’s shoulder once again, kissing him almost reverently. Whatever ugly thing had revolted inside of him settles quietly, calmed by his bard’s comforting weight against his chest. Geralt’s back isn’t leant on anything, but that is alright – he doesn’t need to lean against anything to hold Jaskier this intimately. This is an art that he’s proficient in already, thanks to long nights spent camping outside when their coin stretches too thin for a warm meal and a room at the local inn. Besides, Geralt is strong. Jaskier is not at all as slight and weak as people tend to view him as, true – but he still cannot compare to a Witcher’s full strength.

“Thought you’d run off.” Geralt confesses into Jaskier’s nape. When the Witcher moves, it’s only to bury his face in the crook of Jaskier’s neck, much too embarrassed of his own ardour than to risk his bard catching sight of it. “Thought _I_ made you run off.”

“Never.” Jaskier replies. His voice is racked by pleasure, but his tone is firm and steady. He’s a singer, after all; and practised enough to maintain long notes with little air in his lungs. “There’s absolutely nothing you could do to scare me off, you _big_ , mean Witcher.”

Geralt smiles against him. He’s never particularly cared for people who assume his size, whatever big or small it might’ve been if nature had blessed him differently – but there is something _very_ affirming in hearing Jaskier say it. Even though it’s probably only because it’s _Jaskier_ saying it, and not some random townsfolk gossiping from where they think Geralt cannot hear them talking about him behind his back.

“Good.” He says – sweet, simple, direct. He isn’t good with spoken words, so unlike his little bard. This will have to suffice. Verbally, at least.

Because, physically, he’s already dotting Jaskier’s neck with tiny little kisses and nibbling ever so softly, so very mindful that his fangs are sharper than a human’s.

“Tell me more…” Jaskier whines, trembling in his arms. His little songbird feels so utterly delicate when he’s this vulnerable, though Geralt knows he’s got enough muscle to not be considered dainty by any stretch of the imagination. It’s even better when he’s pressed so close to Jaskier, like this, because he can truly admire how broad his shoulders are, and he can look down Jaskier’s chest and enjoy the view even if he doesn’t stare at that gorgeous, gorgeous cock outright. “You were telling me that you want to witness me coming undone like this… in your arms…”

“I wouldn’t be opposed.” Geralt allows himself to tease. His hand grips Jaskier’s hip more firmly when the bard’s constant rocking back and forth threatens with dislodging him from Geralt’s hold. “If you’d be so graceful as to come undone like this, in my arms.”

Jaskier _screams_ at that, pushing his volume beyond a mere moan or exclamation. Geralt’s eyes narrow; heightened senses often mean heightened sensibility to loud noises too, both in and out of bed. Perhaps that explains why Witchers tend to growl and groan quietly much more often than they scream their moan…

“… or maybe you’ll try to hold it in.” Geralt continues, speaking against his bard’s neck. He wonders if his voice will rumble throughout Jaskier’s body too. “Maybe you’ll try to not come so quickly, just so you can enjoy it even more when you do reach it…”

“Nnnnooooo…” Jaskier laughs, completely breathless. Geralt does not need to see his face to know Jaskier is smiling; he can hear it in his voice. “Gods, Geralt… you more than anyone should know I cannot do that…”

“Perhaps you should try.” Geralt whispers against the shell of his ear. Somehow, speaking out loud is easier now – it’s just so deliriously _easy_ to say whatever comes to mind, because he knows Jaskier will react positively to it. “Perhaps I should tell you how you should touch yourself, _hhmmm?_ Would you like that, little lark?”

Jaskier’s delectable sigh is enough to turn the insides of his ribcage into very dense warmth.

Geralt kisses him again, right where neck meets shoulder. Sheer instinct takes him by storm, driving him to open his mouth around that corded curve, feeling the tension in his bard’s body right underneath his tongue. He doesn’t really need Jaskier to take him up on that offer about guiding him towards an orgasm; but Geralt wouldn’t be opposed to following through with it, either.

“Oh – _yes_ – _please_ – do – _that_.” Jaskier manages to say, taking air in between each word because he’s so strung up that he’s barely coherent. “And fucking _bite_ me already!”

Geralt really does not need to be ordered twice. Somehow, being ordered like this is also very arousing. The simmering heat within his lower belly suddenly starts to boil.

“ _OH_ …!”

Geralt licks over the mark he’s drawn around Jaskier’s right shoulder, laps at it like a true wolf would. He catches Jaskier’s left hand by the wrist and keeps it away from their bodies just to tease his bardling a little bit more. Jaskier whines again, his right hand still moving all over his cock – fast, Geralt notices, but too light.

Jaskier does not like it like that. He never does it like that when he makes himself come quickly in one of those stolen nights. This feels… deliberate. Like he’s making a conscious choice, an _effort_ , to uphold this unpleasing rhythm.

Like he doesn’t want to come any time soon.

“Stop that.” Geralt growls into his little bard’s ear. Jaskier instantly stops touching himself. Jaskier is blushing so intensely that Geralt can feel the warmth irradiating from his skin. “Good boy…”

Jaskier moans again; Geralt files that information away in that little expanse of his memory that is dedicated solely to his beautiful creature sitting in between his own thighs, his ass pressed tightly against Geralt’s crotch. His songbird squirms in place, too fired up by lust than to stay perfectly still. That’s alright, though. Geralt loves him wild and aflame like this – so completely different from the carefully-constructed image of himself that he lets nobles see at their fancy banquets. Geralt loves this untamed version of Jaskier much more; precisely because he knows it’s Jaskier’s truest self.

“G-Geralt…” Jaskier mumbles, his breath hitching midway through. The effect is wanton, broken; as if his little bard wants to be taken apart just to be put together again. “Oh, Geralt, don’t be mean…”

“To you?” Geralt turns his head towards Jaskier’s ear, moving purely on instinct, “ _Never_.”

Jaskier moans again, his whole body turning watery and boneless. He slumps right against Geralt’s body, irresistibly adorable. Geralt can physically feel his brain frying in his skull, not at all unlike that one time when a magic user got mad at him and sent quick lighting to strike at his ribs. Geralt had evaded that hit by a hair’s width – but he knows he will never be able to evade his bard like that. In fact, he _doesn’t_ want to evade his bard.

Because Geralt hungers for him far too much to ever send him away.

“I know how you like it best.” Geralt mumbles, because it makes sense for him to speak up more. If he’s going to really guide Jaskier through this, he cannot stay silent. “I know exactly how you take yourself in hand after rubbing chamomile onto my skin. I’ve listened to you, my little bard. I’ve listened to you moaning so loud, trying to stay quiet, failing because you get too lost in pleasure. I know exactly how fast, how hard, you treat yourself.”

Jaskier moans, rocking back and forth like mere air is giving him enough pressure to get off just like that. Geralt chuckles against his neck, so quiet that he’s pretty sure only a fellow Witcher would’ve been able to hear it.

Then again, his dear bard has probably felt it on his own flesh too; they’re pressed really tightly together, after all. And Geralt would honestly love it if Jaskier realised that this is doing just as much for his Witcher as it is for the bard.

“That’s why I know you haven’t been treating yourself right tonight…” Geralt lets his sentence trail off just for effect, licks at the bitemark on Jaskier’s neck. When he keeps talking, his voice is born from a rumbling growl, “… _so drop it_ , do it _right_ , grab yourself by the base like you always do at first…”

Jaskier obeys.

Geralt blinks. His mouth stays opened. His pupils instantly dilate even more than they already were due to this faint light – there’s not even a full moon tonight – Jaskier is fucking _doing as he said!_

His bard’s eyes are closed, Geralt realises when he moves just enough to take one good look at his face. His eyes are closed and he’s blushing so sweetly and his mouth is so _opened_ … Geralt wants to kiss him, wants to slide his tongue right into his bard’s mouth to truly taste him. An immense hunger growls loud and uncontrolled within him.

Jaskier has his right hand gently wrapped around the base of his gorgeous cock, which makes it arch slightly to one side. Geralt growls; the need to taste his little bardling is still very much there.

“Never thought you’d be so obedient…” As a reward, or maybe just because he can, Geralt kisses the starting point of Jaskier’s jaw. His bard’s heartbeat skips an entire beat. “Just… you don’t have to obey me if you don’t want to.” Another little kiss. “If you _do_ want to do as I say, though… you can start by running your hand up. Slow. Gentle. Just like how you like it best.”

Jaskier squirms in place, because these are the teasing touches he employs when he’s not even half hard and wants to get himself there. They will not be enough to get him nowhere near the blindingly hot orgasm he aches for. He tries to move his left hand, trying desperately to maintain some sliver of control – and finds that Geralt is still clasping him around the wrist. A little moan escapes Jaskier when he tries to break free of his Witcher’s grasp – Geralt does not let him go.

“No, my little songbird.” Geralt whispers to him, feeling quite comfortable leading this dance. It’s strange, and so very uncharacteristic of him, but words are pouring out of him without any interference, without him having to carefully select each one of them. It is quite strange, but Geralt is alright with it – especially if it means having his little bard reacting so acutely to his every syllable. “You’ll stay right where you are until you come undone in my arms. Isn’t that what you wanted, little lark? To be pressed so close to my body that you can feel my voice rumble through you?”

Jaskier moans; his hand has reached his crown right at the end of Geralt’s speech. He pauses his motions again, simply holding himself against the palm of his own hand. Geralt notices how wildly he’s trembling – and instinctually wraps both arms more fully around his bard’s hips. Jaskier downright mewls as he rolls his head back against Geralt’s shoulder, melting more in his arms the longer his Witcher holds him as intimately as this.

“Why’d you stop, my little bard?” Geralt whispers into Jaskier’s ear. The very tip of his tongue licks at his songbird’s neck – and Geralt _moans_ at the taste.

Sweeter than honeyed wine, yet somehow saltier than Lambert’s cooking. It tastes of sheer, uncontrolled arousal, mixed in with earthy undertones, and chamomile, and lute oil. The final result should be almost unappealing, precisely because it’s just so complex that only a Witcher’s finely-tuned senses could ever discern every single trace – and yet Geralt reacts to it like it’s the best thing he’s ever scented. In more ways than one, it is. Because he can detect how Jaskier’s lust spikes every time he nibbles on his bard’s neck, sampling his taste, letting his imagination ride free.

Geralt can only wonder if the rest of Jaskier tastes as sweety-salty as his neck.

“O- _oh_ , so Witchers _can_ moan…” His little bard manages to tease him even now, even though he’s pulled tenser than a drawn-back bowstring. “I wondered if all you can do is growl.”

“I can do many more things, little one.” Geralt bites at his shoulder, his bardling’s intoxicating taste flooding his mouth. Geralt moans again. “I can guide you as you touch yourself so nice, so slow… Rub at the tip, won’t you?

For a moment, Jaskier opens his mouth in a wide smirk, just as if he’s hellbent on teasing Geralt more. The Witcher focuses the molten heat of his gaze in Jaskier’s to try and prevent it, even though that has never worked before at all.

All that comes out of his bard’s mouth is a broken moan.

Geralt bites him again, brushes his knuckles against Jaskier’s inner wrist to gently nudge him into pleasuring himself. Geralt isn’t sure what part of this whole experience is so utterly hot to him – Jaskier’s sweety-salty taste, the sight of that gorgeous cock, himself being still so clothed while his bard is so deliciously naked – or if it’s the combination of it all.

Jaskier’s fingers slide over the head of his cock, teasing at the slit at the top. Geralt hums as a way to show his appreciation, instantly focusing all his attention in the pearly droplets gathering in between Jaskier’s elegant fingers. A musician’s fingers, the Witcher thinks – always graceful when making music, long and slender; yet with enough strength to change the lute’s strings and pull them taut against the fretboard. In a way, it’s just like their posture now – Jaskier’s body is also pulled taut by pleasure, right against Geralt’s warm, chiselled chest.

“Good boy…” Geralt praises him, not bothering to raise his voice from the growly depths it has fallen to. He also doesn’t question why it feels so good to praise his bard – in his head, if Geralt himself likes being praised so intimately, there’s a good chance that others will like it too. It’s flawed logic, and Lambert would have a field day teasing him if he knew, but Eskel would merely agree and praise his fellow Wolves even more. “Keep doing that, keep making yourself feel so good… Tell me, does it feel nice? Isn’t this much better now that I’m here too?”

“ _YES!_ ” Jaskier basically screams. Geralt smirks against his skin, so damn full of himself now that he knows he can make his little bardling _sing_. It feels so nice, even if he is not the one currently touching Jaskier’s cock, caressing its head so gently. “Gods, yes, _yes_ , more, more, _Geralt pleaseeee_ …”

“You sound desperate, little lark.” Geralt runs his tongue from Jaskier’s shoulder to the lobe of his ear, his hands greedily falling opened against his bard’s quivering belly. He can feel the muscle rippling under his fingertips; Jaskier is more sturdily built than he looks like when he’s fully dressed. “Do you want to come, then? Do you want me to feel you trembling like that? Listen to you while you scream in pleasure… _again?_ ”

Jaskier reacts more sharply to his Witcher’s words than he does to his own touches – Geralt can only suppose it’s because integrating him into the equation is a novelty; and all novelties are exciting and new by definition. That would certainly explain why Jaskier rocks his hips back against Geralt’s crotch much more often than he does against his own hand, even when he knows he won’t find what he’s looking for in the Witcher’s anatomy. Still, Geralt is deeply flattered.

“I’ll take that as a yes.” He uses whatever little leverage he has due to their posture to kiss his bard’s cheek. It feels aflame. Geralt hums, too aware that they’re both basically the same height when standing side-by-side – and loving this newfound leverage precisely because of that. He feels more powerful, more in control, when he knows himself taller than his partners. It’s no wonder it would apply to his beloved bard too, although they’re not officially partners in anything other than in travel. “Go on, then. I know you love it really fast, but really gentle too. I know how high your voice gets when you’re really into it. Did you know your scent changes when you come?”

“It does…?” Jaskier asks in between some stolen breaths, his head turning to look at Geralt. Those very blue eyes are still mostly closed, though. He’s too gone for anything else.

When Jaskier huffs again, his warm breath caresses Geralt’s half-parted lips.

“ _Yes_.” His dear Witcher growls, holding himself even closer to Jaskier’s trembling body. “Always sweet, always enticing me more than your words do, but it _changes_.”

“You sound… like… _ooohh_ … like you w-wanna… _taste me_ …”

Geralt trembles; he tells himself it’s because the simmering heat in his lower belly has increased its temperature towards wildfire. It’s also spreading throughout his crotch as quickly as wildfire through a dry forest in summer. In any other circumstance, he would be honestly afraid of his own hunger – but he feels completely safe with Jaskier pressed this close to him.

“Because I do, little lark.” He confesses, burying his face in the crook of Jaskier’s neck just because it’s better than looking at his blushing face while admitting it out loud. “I really do. You told me to only speak to you, though.”

“ _Mmmmm_ , that’s true…” Jaskier mewls. His right hand is working that gorgeous cock quite faster now; lute oil and slick combine until all Geralt’s heightened senses can hear is the wet slide of skin against skin. “Another time, then…”

“Another time.” Geralt repeats. It feels like confirmation that this will not be just a random, stolen night. It feels like there will many more instances like this. Maybe even some when Geralt will be allowed to say, to _do_ , much more than just this.

In his bloody line of work, hope is the most insidious little thing he can allow to nest within his heart – and yet Geralt finds himself still aching for that writhing little thing, even though he expects to have his expectations betrayed again.

In many a way, it is just like how it feels to have his dearest bard trembling in his arms, hoping this won’t be the last time yet without knowing it for sure. Dirty talk means nothing; and if Jaskier retreats his word once he is not so caught up in desperate pleasure, well. It is his right to do so. Geralt would never fight him on that decision. Even though he knows just how much it would wound.

“Geralt…”

“Yes, my little songbird?”

“C– _AH_ –n I… Oh _fuuuuuck_ …”

“Can you fuck? I don’t know, why don’t you show me whether you can?”

“Oh – _fuck –_ you…”

“You _wish_.”

Jaskier moans again, loud and unabashed, when Geralt accompanies his tease with little bite at his earlobe. His little bard’s scent is growing thicker and thicker, enveloping them both in a heady blanket that seems to have been constructed just to delight Geralt’s Witcher senses.

It suddenly dawns on Geralt that he’s not holding Jaskier’s wrist captive anymore; and he doesn’t know exactly when he let go of it, but it doesn’t even matter. Not when he can taste his little bard’s impending orgasm in the thick scent coming off him in heavy waves.

Geralt doesn’t even need to listen to whatever Jaskier wanted to ask him to know that it was only a desperate beg to be allowed to come.

“Will you do it now, then?” He whispers, his voice coming out delicate and soft instead of growly and commanding. An ugly thing twists within him, even though Jaskier has already told him once that this probably won’t be the last time they do something like this. “Will you come for me now?”

“For you…” Jaskier moans, blindingly searching for Geralt’s jawline with his lips. His Witcher allows him to mouth at the sharp cut of his jaw, caresses Jaskier’s abdomen with extremely gentle fingertips. He’s accommodating and delicate and so very _perfect_ , even if such is an image that most people would never associate with a Witcher. “Geralt… for you…”

When his Witcher speaks again, Jaskier makes damn sure he twists his body until Geralt is speaking directly against his lips.

“Go on then, my little songbird. Come for me.”

Jaskier’s orgasm hits him viciously, forces him to open his mouth as wide as it can go to _scream_ his dear Witcher’s name into the cool night’s air. He twists and turns in all directions, his hand not stopping moving even as he practically milks himself dry. His eyes open halfway through, his gaze locking with Geralt’s. It feels like molten heat to the Witcher, like a hunger so immense he knows it will never be quenched.

It passes as quickly as it came. His beloved bard falls boneless against Geralt’s broad chest, settling himself there with a delighted sigh. His hand is still loosely wrapped around the base of his cock, and coated in thick, translucid white. Geralt moves to kiss his wetted hair, wanting to sample all lingering traces of sweat and salt.

But he never gets the chance to do so, because Jaskier is moving again. He mewls and moans like he’s still coming, which sends Geralt’s senses directly into overdrive – and halfway towards a temptation so horribly intense that it feels like being under a siren’s spell, under a succubus’ influence, under some kind of aphrodisiac.

His little bard kisses him slowly, kneeling between his thighs to be able to throw both his arms around Geralt’s shoulders. Jaskier moans into his mouth when Geralt finally – _finally_ – gets to run his tongue over the wet velvet of Jaskier’s own. Geralt does not let each kiss linger, though; he can hear Jaskier’s wild heartbeat even when he’s not paying conscious attention to it.

Geralt always feels like he’s deep underwater whenever he focuses his heightened senses on a specific sound, and tonight is no exception. He can hear the echo of his sweet bard’s gasping for air after every touch of their lips. It gets to a point where Geralt merely curls a hand around the back of Jaskier’s neck to keep his little bard against him, enjoying the contact without even needing a true kiss anymore.

Still, Jaskier kisses him again as soon as he regains his breathing enough to speak coherently again. Geralt hums against his lips, kissing him just as lovingly as Jaskier does it to him in turn. For all his songbird writhed and moaned earlier, he’s now strangely quiet – the residual waves of orgasm haven’t abandoned his body just yet, but he doesn’t seem bothered by them.

Geralt holds his little bard by the waist, keeps him against his own body like he’s the only thing in between Jaskier and a painful fall onto the ground. Jaskier smiles, gives his mouth another little kiss before tilting his head just so. Geralt hums when his bardling mouths at his jawline without a clear purpose. One of the Witcher’s hands finds its way into Jaskier’s hair, holding him without tugging – a touch meant just to feel, not to arouse.

“Thank you…” Jaskier half whispers, half moans against the curve of his neck.

Geralt hums a low note that he knows his bard can feel rumbling throughout his own body, and holds him closer. Now that the haze of lust is over for his sweet little bard, it is hard to speak out loud. Geralt would be mad on Jaskier’s behalf for being so utterly uncommunicative, but this is just his usual state of being. If he got upset about it now, he will honestly feel slighted during the day too, because emotions are fuzzy and treacherous things that always carve a hole into his chest. They nest themselves there as deep as they can go, until it’s easy to forget they live there – until the day in which they are unearthed; and then they carve a hole in his chest on their way outside.

“Can I stay here…?” Jaskier asks, although he is, at the same time, burying himself as deeply into his Witcher’s arms as he can physically go.

It takes everything to not answer with a needy whisper of _please_.

“ _Yes_.” Geralt says instead, because it feels better, if just as raw and vulnerable as the truest answer within his heart.

Jaskier downright _purrs_ as he settles down, his head cradled in the crook of his Witcher’s neck. He looks content from Geralt’s perspective, satiated for the time being and ready to give himself away into the soft arms of slumber. Geralt kisses the top of his head, inhaling that sweet scent one last time. Jaskier giggles, airy and delighted and so utterly _adorable_ that Geralt’s heart does a funny little skip over a beat.

“You’ll get cold…” Geralt rumbles, if only to hide his embarrassment at having his emotions read so easily. “Let me at least get you a blanket, if you don’t want to dress yourself up again.”

“I like it like this…” Jaskier replies, heavy with sleep. His scent has mellowed out after his release, and now it rests around them both as thin as the old cotton blankets lying crumpled in their bedrolls. “… wanna know how you’ll look tomorrow…”

Geralt allows himself a secret smile, because he knows his sweet bard cannot see it from his angle. Leaning himself down onto Jaskier’s bedroll is easier thought than done, since his bard is apparently quite clingy and cuddly after the height of his pleasure. It is another detail about him that Geralt files away in the crook of his memory that is dedicated only to Jaskier. It’s so mind-blowing that he’s missed this information for so long, though; especially because, regardless of how much time his little bard spent in others’ alcoves, he always did come back to his and Geralt’s shared room to sleep pressed against him – “the bed is too tiny for both of us”, “I’m too cold”… Geralt has heard every excuse under the sun. But the truth remains – Jaskier always comes back to Geralt. Even when his dear bard finds heat in other people, he never falls asleep at their side.

Geralt knows how low his standards must be if that’s the bar he’s using to measure how much of his bard’s delightful attention he is allowed to have.

And yet Geralt cannot bring himself to care about turbulent emotions. He is much too content now for that. He has not found his release, nor any physical pleasure on his own body. And yet he feels like he could simply float, ebb like the tide of warmth that he is currently submerged in. Throwing a blanket over his bard’s lithe, yet muscled, body is more an unconscious act than a thought-out action. It gives Geralt something to do with his hands, because holding Jaskier close to his own chest seems impossible now – sex is no longer part of the equation; which means Geralt can no longer touch, hold, _speak_ , as easily as he could before. Especially because Jaskier has not explicitly told him if such a touch would be welcomed or abhorred.

“Geralt…”

The sweetest smile forms in the bard’s lips as he feels his Witcher tuck him closer to his own chest, making sure they’re face-to-face before wrapping both his arms around Jaskier’s back to ensure he won’t slide away in his sleep.

The last thing Jaskier remembers being conscious of before sleep overtook him in full was a murmured, reverential whisper of his own name.

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, Eskel’s touch really does act as a [vibrator](https://witcher.fandom.com/wiki/Eskel#Personality_and_traits) for all mages.
> 
> My brain is constantly tossing out Witcher concepts nowadays – and here I am, writing them all to get them out of my system. Hope you enjoyed this wild ride!


End file.
